


After

by superagentwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles deals with the aftermath of Mexico. He and Malia aren't working out, and he's pretty sure the reason has something to do with the resident sourwolf. While Scott is busy with pack-bonding exercises Stiles takes up working at Deaton's and gains more knowledge than ever. Something shows up in town, though, and the results of the encounter are unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

Derek’s been moping around since Braeden took off.

He’d never admit it but Stiles notices- the way Derek isn’t as vocal, the way his new found power doesn’t seem so important anymore.

That, and Stiles has realized he’s got it bad for Derek.

It’s probably the most inopportune time to stumble upon such a revelation. Firstly, Derek is apparently trying to mend his bleeding heart over the only woman that _didn’t_ try to kill him, his pack, or his family. Secondly, Malia is still kind of his girlfriend. Kind of.

Stiles and Malia are ‘complicated’. Not in a hunter-and-werewolf, Romeo-and-Juliet kind of way. More in an I-knew-your-real-father and still-dealing-with-human-life kind of way. If that makes sense.

In any case, Malia is dealing with Peter being her father and the fact that he’s pretty much insane, being the one behind the deadpool and all. It doesn’t help that Peter may or may not have told her who her mother could be.

Then there’s Stiles. His dad may like Malia but her own feelings are much more complicated. Malia enjoys being pack. The problems start when you take into account the fact that Stiles knew about Peter and didn’t say anything. The only reason Malia looked past the transgression was because she realizes that Stiles was always trying to protect her. To protect pack. And to Malia the werecoyote, protecting pack comes first.

But that’s all it is. Stiles is afraid that Malia is confusing _love_ with love. Body-and-soul type of love with Pack love.

And then came Derek.

Derek has _been_ there. It’s just that when he was lying on the ground and bleeding to death Stiles kind of had an untimely realization. He didn’t want Derek to die. Beyond that, Stiles _never_ wanted Derek to die.

Stiles is accidentally in love with Derek.

 

* * *

 

It happens one night. Stiles can never really sleep right, has always had problems with insomnia. It’s been different since Malia- having another being in the room makes it easier somehow.

These days even another body doesn’t help him fall asleep.

Tonight, though, Malia doesn’t come. She doesn’t inch the window open and he doesn’t crack an eye, grumbling as he scoots over. There’s no moving around, no blanket distribution, no soft breathing in the night.

Stiles is completely alone.

The thought isn’t soul-crushing. It’s funny because usually the thought of being alone will send him into a panic attack if he’s not careful. Now it seems to be a solid fact, an empty realization. And then he realizes with terrible certainty that it’s not because he’s not afraid of being alone.

It’s that he’s used to it.

And that’s frightening. Even with Malia around, even with the ragtag pack rebuilding itself, even when Kate is no longer an immediate issue, Stiles is alone. The cold envelops him and he tries to think why he feels like this.

 _I’m not like them,_ Stiles realizes, and he wants to curl further up in his bed. _I’m not like Malia. I’m not like Scott or Kira or even Lydia._ _I’m only human. That’s all I am._

The panic settles in then and Stiles breathes heavily, eyes locked on the bright moon shining outside of his window. His sight swims and he feels his chest tighten.

_I’m only human._

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t go to school the next day. His dad gives him a knowing, sorrowful look and promises to call the office for a sick day. Stiles can’t stand the way his dad knows, doesn’t even try to make Stiles go. It’s not the same now that his dad has seen what Stiles- what the _pack_ \- has to face.

The day is cold and Stiles knows that winter break is coming fast. There’s a thin fog on his window and he looks out at the blurry green trees across the street. The weather isn’t doing anything to help his mood.

Stiles busies himself with the inane task of organizing his anti-supernatural items. Wolfsbane varieties, cures, mountain ash- Stiles has secretly been keeping up a small stock of his own. Deaton’s been helpful with his explanations and Stiles keeps good track of them in a worn book that was once his mother’s. The pages are homemade, recycled and vaguely discolored. He remembers making the book with her when he was a child, clumsy fingers and eager words working alongside her steady presence.

“What is that?”

Malia’s voice is guarded and Stiles turns to see her at the window, tense and wary. Stiles blinks, looking down at his hands. _Letharia Vulpina._ His mouth works silently as he tries to play catch-up with the sudden interruption.

“It’s…lichenized fungus,” Stiles says, and part of him wonders why that’s the first thing he said.

“What is it? It smells wrong,” Malia says tersely, shifting her weight as she stays by the window. Stiles puts the bottle in his drawer while keeping an eye on her, nervous.

“We…used it to poison the nogitsune,” Stiles explains vaguely, and his heart sinks when Malia’s expression changes. Understanding, disbelief.

“You _keep_ that?” She asks, stepping forward, and Stiles curses inwardly as she yanks the drawer open. The bottles and jars nestled within rest between books and notes he’s kept since Scott was bitten.

“I-,”

“What- why didn’t you tell me?” Malia asks, and Stiles blinks, confused.

“Tell you what?”

“You keep _poison_ in your sock drawers and you didn’t think it was important to tell me?”

Stiles takes a step back, feeling his legs collide with the edge of his desk. He almost can’t believe that this is happening.

“I need to be able to help- to protect myself,” Stiles explains, and Malia looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Stiles, this is _not_ \- I could have opened this! And how is poison going to help you? If a pack attacks they’re not going to ask us to _dinner_.”

“It’s important,” Stiles says firmly, and he can feel his anger rising even as he tries to squash it. This is _Malia_. She means well, he _knows_ that. “What if we needed it?”

“Then we get it from _Deaton_. Why would _you_ need to keep it?”

“Look- I don’t know what the problem is. Is my only job supposed to be sitting here, worrying about everybody else? Doing research no one cares about? Running off to Mexico when I’m only _human_?”

The words spill out before Stiles has time to stop them. He knows he sounds angry but he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to do this. Malia shakes her head silently, arms crossed.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asks quietly, and he can see her looking over at the clear glass board stowed by his desk. The papers are filed neatly in his drawer, ready to be added to the book. “You haven’t been the same. Not since-,”

“Not since we walked into a trap? Almost _killed_ Lydia, Mason, Scott, _and_ Derek? He’s my best friend, Malia. I can’t- I can’t just lose him,” Stiles finishes, and he realizes too late that he didn’t clarify and its sounds like he’s talking about Derek.

“Yeah, isn’t that _always_ what it’s like?” Malia argues and Stiles thanks his lucky stars that she didn’t notice his slip-up.

“Look- I’m not like you or Scott or anyone else. I can’t- I’m _human_ , Malia. I can’t run off and start killing things with my bare hands. I can’t save _anyone_. So yes, there’s something wrong with me and I _do_ need to keep this. If there’s one thing I can do to help, I’m going to do it.”

“You already help.”

 _No, I don’t._ Stiles rubs his face with shaky hands, sinking into his computer chair in exhaustion. These past few weeks have taken everything out of him. The deadpool, Kate, the teenage mercenaries, Liam, Derek’s apparent impeding death. Everything has been adding up.

“Look- I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and it’s a mark of his exhaustion that he won’t even try to fight anymore. He can’t think, can’t explain anything right now. It’s easier to let this go.

“Stiles…I don’t know if this is working.”

It’s the best and worst thing he could hear right now. It _isn’t_ working, he knows, not any more. He’s different now and so is she. It’s not bad, but… _I don’t want it to end like this. God, why can’t I have a normal life for once?_ A normal life, where he and Malia would probably go out for months, maybe even a year, before deciding they just wouldn’t work. Or maybe they never would. Maybe they would have been together for years. A lifetime.

“Hey. I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and he rises from his chair with an apologetic smile. He knows he looks like hell, tired and not as energetic as he should be. As he used to be.

“No. Stop it,” Malia says shortly and Stiles blinks, taken aback.

“What-,”

“Stop apologizing. You always do that. You don’t have to apologize,” Malia says, frowning. Stiles groans and Malia gives him an unamused look.

“It’s true, all right? I _am_ sorry and I _have_ to say it. I’ll say it as many times as I need to. For _me_ ,” Stiles huffs before rubbing his hair with anxious fingers. “So there. I’m sorry I fucked up and this isn’t working anymore.”

“Stiles-,”

“Look. Just- I know you don’t have a lot of…experience. And neither did I. But I’m sorry your first…whatever…was so stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Malia interrupts, and she sounds angry. Stiles wants very desperately to slap himself right now for not knowing how to say what he means.

“No, that’s not- Malia. I…I liked being with you,” Stiles tries, this time slower. “And I don’t regret it. I just- wish it could’ve ended better. Or not at all.”

Malia’s gaze softens as she bites her lip, tapping the edge of his dresser before closing the drawer.

“Yeah. But- I still…,”

“We’ll still…be around each other,” Stiles finishes, smiling unevenly, and Malia nods.

“Thank you. For…letting me be part of your family. For a little while.”

“Malia. You’re still my family. All of you are,” Stiles says quietly, and Malia smiles, stepping forward to hug him in a very un-Malia way.

“That’s what I like about you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. It’s like Allison and Isaac all over again.

Scott spends his time romancing Kira and teaching Liam how to handle being a werewolf. Stiles is once again left to his own devices. He’s beginning to see that there’s a pattern to this isolation.

It’s strange. Stiles understands that Scott has to balance his new beta duty with his regular life, which now includes Kira. It’s kind of stinging, though, to know that his best friend isn’t trying to make at least a little bit of time for him.

When they’d first returned from Mexico Stiles had noticed a difference in Liam. Not just his anger issues or friend issues, but also in the way he interacted with pack. Liam made an effort to try and sit with them at lunch, talk to them more often. It had been great, especially when Liam made a point to talk to Stiles.

“I didn’t thank you for what happened on the way,” Liam said and Stiles had stared at him, nonplussed. “You know. In the van.”

“Uh…yeah, dude. Totally.” Stiles shouldn’t have felt so surprised, should have had a snappy comment ready, but he was caught off guard. Wolves didn’t thank him. _Derek_ didn’t thank him. He just _did_ stuff and expected for it to never be brought up.

“How…did you _know_ that would work?”

Liam’s gaze was familiar and Stiles felt a pang when he realized it was the kind of wide-eyed, trusting look a kid might give their older sibling. Liam _trusted_ him. Stiles, the human. The one that charged into danger when he was the most vulnerable. Stiles laughed, feeling a weight lift from him.

“Well, you know-,”

“Hey, come on. Practice,” Scott had interrupted, clapping Liam on the shoulder. Stiles had stopped mid-sentence, mouth open. Liam glanced back at Scott for a second, eyes turning back to Stiles. There was something there- maybe pity, maybe confusion- and then he’d said a quick ‘later’ before walking away.

It wasn’t like Scott did it on purpose. Scott never did _anything_ bad on purpose. But Stiles was left there to pick up his backpack and leave school alone. And that was what happened, at the end of the day. Stiles always left alone.

 

* * *

 

Deaton isn’t surprised when Stiles shows up to cover Scott’s shift again. Stiles may not be a werewolf but he has a way with most animals, something he thinks his mom helped him with.

_They’ve got something that we do. A soul._

At the rate he’s going Stiles is going to save up enough money to buy a Camaro. He’s been working for Deaton in all of his spare time and then some. He never works when Scott does, conscious of the strange rift that’s growing between them- they’ve been through this before and Stiles knows better than to fight it.

“Here you are,” Deaton says when Stiles walks in. He’s holding a mop in one hand and a book in the other.

For the first time in almost a full day Stiles relaxes. This is where he can wind down. Deaton’s been giving Stiles reading material, letting the teen take down information for his own library. Stiles has started to realize just how much Deaton knows and his annoyance at the man’s cryptic guidance has faded to the background, replaced by new found awe at the sheer amount of information Deaton has at his fingertips.

“So how is Lucy?”

“Doing well,” Deaton says, smiling, and Stiles looks into the terrier’s cage. The dog is a patient, quiet one and Stiles has been keeping an eye on her since she came in with a broken leg. “You know, Stiles, it’s nice to have someone _human_ around here.”

Stiles laughs, heaving the mop into a bucket of water. It’s nice to have someone that understands and Deaton is a master at not being explicit. Stiles is starting to appreciate the skill.

“So be real. Are witches a thing?”

And that’s how the evening passes. Stiles asks questions and Deaton answers to the best of his abilities, disappearing to check on animals when Stiles starts to overload him. Stiles cleans up and organizes supplies, everything from dog food to syringes requiring constant stocking and maintenance.

It’s approximately eight o’clock when Derek comes barreling in.

Stiles is deaf to the world, singing (embarrassingly) to Rihanna because fuck opinions, you’re _lying_ if you say you don’t listen to _any_ pop music. It’s more depressing than anything else because _Stiles doesn’t sing_ and the fact that he _is_ singing in public is testament to just how lonely he feels that he has to fill the void with his own voice.

When Stiles turns, mop in hand, earbuds buzzing with music. His mouth hangs open and the words die on his lips because _Derek is standing right there._

“Oh,” Stiles manages weakly, and he suddenly feels like everything has become very surreal. Derek is staring at him with an unreadable expression and Stiles can’t move and then Deaton walks in as if on cue.

“Derek. How can I help you?”

As if Stiles hadn’t been singing. _God bless that man._

“I…I need to talk,” Derek says, and he barely manages to tear his gaze from Stiles as he finishes his sentence. Deaton nods sharply, waving Derek inside the room. The familiar steel table is there in the center and Stiles pauses his music, dropping the earbuds over the collar of his shirt.

“What is it?”

Derek glances back at Stiles and Deaton raises an eyebrow, following Derek’s gaze. Stiles bites his tongue, fighting the surge of emotions threatening to choke him. Love, hate, sorrow, helplessness. Derek frowns for a second and Stiles backs up for a minute until Deaton speaks.

“Stiles. There are new supplies for the shelf.”

“Right,” Stiles says quickly, and he moves to the other side of the room, right by Deaton. The nondescript box on the shelf has labeled packages in it- Wolfsbane and the like- and Stiles knows what needs to be done with each. He also knows that Deaton just directly asserted his will over Derek’s. _He let me stay._

There’s a moment of silence and Stiles is afraid Derek isn’t going to speak but then the sound of creaking leather alerts Stiles as Derek shifts.

“There’s something here. I don’t know what it is; I can’t smell it. Whatever it is, I’ve been noticing clearings and plants torn up in the woods.”

“Stiles,” Deaton says calmly, and Stiles swallows as he places the last bottle on the shelf. He knows what this is. _A test._

“It’s something of the earth. That’s why you can’t smell it,” Stiles explains, and Derek’s expression is confused. He looks at Deaton for direction but the man ignores him, watching Stiles with perceptive eyes.

“What do you mean, ‘of the earth’?”

“There are several things that are earth-bound. You’re a wolf- you’re aligned with nature. If something is earth-bound you can’t smell it as well, if at all, because it blends in. If it were water-bound then it would smell _really_ wrong and it would be easier to distinguish.”

Derek stares at Stiles and the room is silent for a minute before Deaton reaches for the book Stiles had stowed on the shelf when he arrived for work.

“So. What next?”

Deaton’s eyes sparkle as Stiles smirks back at him, recognizing the question. It’s one of the games they play- a learning game, a way for Stiles to categorize and practice with the information he’s been given.

“The clearings. Are they in a shape? What’s the condition of the ground?”

“Mostly circular. Probably cleared by hand but there are marks- like a campground. Some things must have been on the ground.”

Derek catches on, still wary but watching Stiles’ pacing with interest. Stiles tries to ignore his gaze, already flying through his mental list and cross-referencing items.

“What about the plants? What kinds were disturbed and how? Were they left or taken?”

“I’m not sure. It looks like they were torn from the ground. I saw some flowers. They were white and purple, with a yellow spot.”

Derek seems uncomfortable at his own lack of knowledge but Stiles doesn’t dwell on it. Deaton passes Stiles the book and he flips expertly through a large section, landing exactly where he remembered the sketch was.

“Did it look like this?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies slowly, watching Stiles with something like fascination. Stiles tries to ignore the way it makes his heart skip.

“It’s Euphrasia. One of the plants commonly known as Eyebright. This one isn’t poisonous, but it can be used as an astringent and with almost any type of eye problem. It also helps with allergies and you can smoke it, too.”

“…so somebody’s smoking it,” Derek deadpans, and Stiles coughs to hide the laugh bubbling up in his throat. Derek of all people is making him laugh. _God, my life is sad._

“Well, here’s the thing. It’s also believed to help create prophetic dreams or allow you to see things you normally don’t during the day.”

Stiles wants to laugh again when Derek blinks, unaffected, and it’s probably good that he doesn’t. Deaton is smiling like a proud father and Stiles closes the book, fingers tapping against the worn cover.

“Based on what you told us about the clearings…,” Deaton supplies, raising an eyebrow enigmatically as he fills out Stiles’ paycheck.

“It’s probably a witch,” Stiles says, worrying at his bottom lip. Derek is _still_ staring at him and Stiles is starting to freak out a little bit. “Whatever they’re doing, they might be trying to track you down. Werewolf lore puts transformations primarily at night as well as on the full moon. I think we have a witch and they’re using the Eyebright to look for a werewolf.”

“You need to find out what else they’re taking,” Deaton says, and he turns back to Derek with small cloth bag. “If you figure out what they use in their spells you might be able to track them.”

“A witch,” Derek mutters, and Deaton smiles, handing Stiles his check.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles. Derek, why don’t you have Stiles take a look with you? He’ll be able to find what you need faster.”

Stiles simultaneously wants to hug and punch Deaton. He’s pretty sure neither would be a good idea.

“Sure,” Derek says, and he sounds uncertain but when he glances at Stiles it’s not with anger or even annoyance. In fact, Stiles might be crazy but he thinks Derek looks _intrigued_.

It’s by far the strangest day at work Stiles has had all month and that’s including the lesson about Tsukumogami.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles tries to steady his pulse as he climbs into Derek’s car. The night air is cool against his skin and he glances at his phone. _Eight thirty._ It’s not even late but the sky is dark with winter clouds.

“So Deaton’s been- _teaching_ you?”

Stiles bites his lip, smiling a little as he flips through the pages of his Monster Book of Monsters (that’s what he calls it privately and no one can convince him to change the name). The sketchy illustrations are rife with rubbed-out pencil marks that the watercolors barely hide. Stiles had never been the artsy type (except for maybe music), but he had tried.

“Yeah. Kind of. I mean, he gives me books and answers most of my questions. Usually I just ask way too much and he runs away to go feed the dogs or something.”

Derek snorts and Stiles catches him biting back a grin. It’s a start and it makes Stiles giddy for a moment before he remembers that Derek can hear his heartbeat.

“So…how is Scott doing with Liam?”

It’s the kind of vague question you would ask to fill up the silence but Stiles feels it hit his chest because he _doesn’t know_. He doesn’t know what his best friend is doing anymore, or _how_ he’s doing. He knows nothing about Scott and Liam and their werewolf training.

“Good,” Stiles says and even as he speaks he knows Derek can sense the lie. Stiles doesn’t even believe himself.

They pull up to the woods just past where the Hale’s house used to stand. Stiles bites his lip as he climbs out of the car, eyes adjusting to the dark of the night. The trees smell green and wintry as he steps forward, one red sneaker planted firmly in the grass.

“Wait,” Derek says, and Stiles glances back, pausing. “You…shouldn’t you stay back? Just in case.”

Stiles snorts, ignoring the suggestion as he walks unafraid into the dark forest.

“Since when do I stay back?”

The sounds of dead leaves and twigs underfoot echo in the empty woods and Stiles keeps one hand wrapped firmly around the small bag in his fist. His ‘magic mix’ contains several types of Wolfsbane, some mountain ash, and _Letharia Vulpina_. It’s pretty much guaranteed to slow down, if not stop any supernatural creature.

The clearing is just like Derek described- circular, messily cleared as if by hand. There are marks in the ground and Stiles crouches, fingers brushing the darkened grass. _Burns. Like candles were here._

“What do you think?” Derek asked quietly.

Stiles sighed, rising to wipe his palms on his jeans haphazardly.

“I _know_ it’s a witch. Those marks are from candles- there are spots in each cardinal direction. The ground smells like honey- they’re probably homemade, maybe infused with herbs or something to enforce the spell.”

“Can you…I don’t know, Deaton said we might be able to _trace_ them somehow?”

Stiles chews his lip again, vaguely remembering the bloody spot there when he woke up in the morning. _Bad idea._

“I…in theory, yes. I know how to do it. I’ve just never really had the opportunity.”

Derek doesn’t look too excited about the answer. In fact, he looks extremely cautious.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Derek begins, and Stiles huffs, rolling his sleeves up while depositing his backpack by a tree.

“Look, we don’t have the luxury of getting a witch to come in and look at it. No time, no connections, diplomacy- it’ll be easier for me to try. I’m not an emissary or anything so I don’t have red tape to fight.”

Derek huffs as Stiles opens his backpack, break-proof bottles clacking as he dumps them haphazardly on the moist ground.

“I suppose Deaton’s been teaching you about pack dynamics and diplomacy.”

It’s not a question and Stiles very nearly preens when he hears the approval in Derek’s voice.

“Yeah. It’s worse than the U.S. government,” Stiles snorts, tracing the indentations in the ground with a smooth stone. Derek hovers nearby and Stiles ignores him, sticking his own candles into the empty spots burned in the ground. “I’m gonna need you to stand back.”

Derek looks ready to protest and he opens his mouth before Stiles turns to flash him a dangerous look.

“If something happens-,”

“Then you need to _stay back_ ,” Stiles says firmly, pulling up a small tangle of eyebright from nearby. Derek starts making a rumbly noise that’s probably the beginnings of a growl but Stiles continues. “Magic can pull you in and since this witch is trying to _catch_ a werewolf, whatever magic I’m calling up will most definitely be harmful to you. Not to mention it’ll call the witch.”

“So I’m just supposed to stay here,” Derek says flatly in a voice that clearly states his intentions to do the exact opposite.

“You’re going to use _this_ ,” Stiles replies sharply, standing toe-to-toe with the man.

“…a stick.”

“I don’t have to explain this to you,” Stiles says, ignoring Derek’s petulant tone. “Just use it to break the circle. Destroy the main line, the ring that everything else feeds out from.”

Derek still looks ready to refuse but he thankfully nods, stepping a bare inch away from the indentations in the ground. Stiles sighs and turns, sitting cross-legged while trying to concentrate.

He really _does_ know how to work it. But he’s never tried before.

The setup is almost exactly the same as what the witch used. The only difference is Stiles’ candles, the map he holds in his hands, and the spell. The candles have been infused to accept residual energy without retaining it too long, perfect to use in a tracing spell. The map is there as a kind of focus for Stiles to channel energy into; the standard track spell is base enough for Stiles to alter it with his knowledge of the witch he’s tracing.

The clearing is silent as Stiles sits, eyes closed and breathing even. His arms are resting loosely over his knees, fingers drooping as he focuses his energy in his center.

The words are murmured to the earth and Stiles feels the cadence as he wills the spell to work, latching on to the buzz still gripping the circle. The hum increases in volume as he inhales deeply, energy flowing suddenly through his inert fingers and into his core.

The influx could have been too much to take but Stiles was aware when the nogitsune possessed him and he remembers the vast entity that threatened to swallow him whole. He takes a ragged breath and lets the energy spread, bleeding into every inch of his being.

It’s a dark energy, one that feels cold and cruel and vengeful. It makes him think of Kate and he flinches, wanting to get as far away from the slick, oily presence invading his body. Instead he bites his lip, feeling the reality of blood against his tongue as he struggles to focus.

The power is immense and Stiles channels it, concentrating on the image of the map in his mind. He can’t open his eyes, can’t take the chance that his vision will affect the flow of energy and channel it elsewhere. In his mind’s eye the map begins to smoke, a burning hole growing in a spot he can’t quite make out.

Suddenly there’s a shriek.

Stiles screams, head thrown back even as he keeps his eyes closed because he _can’t let this out._ The shriek in his mind tears through his soul and it feels like fingernails against his brain, scratching and drawing blood. It runs like fire in his veins and then he sees it.

Bloody mouth. Cruel eyes. Laughter, mocking and cold. Pitch-black hair that blends into a deep ocean. He can see her face and it doesn’t scare him but then the ocean shines red and the blood overflows, iron-scented depths leaking over Stiles’ feet in sick waves. He can smell it, can see it, can _hear_ the wet noise and then he’s seeing Erica and Boyd and-

The energy dissipates. It’s sudden and shocking, like a needle stabbed between his lungs, and suddenly he can _breathe_.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and the way his voice sounds it probably isn’t the first time he’s said the name. In fact, Derek sounds decidedly worried.

“M’fine,” Stiles manages to cough, and when he breathes in he feels the blood and smells it in his nose. “Fuck.”

The stick lies discarded on the ground and Derek’s rumbling like a distant volcano. The image makes Stiles giggle a little and Derek looks at him with worried eyes like he’s insane.

“Bad idea,” Derek manages to bite out, and Stiles rolls his eyes as he tilts his head forward, blood dripping between his scarlet shoes.

“Wow. Are you _honestly_ saying ‘I told you so’?” Stiles snorts and regrets it as blood splatters on the ground in a grotesque Rorschach. Derek’s rumbling threatens to become a growl.

“You were screaming.”

“Yeah, someone shrieked at me,” Stiles says dismissively, but Derek isn’t being fooled. “Calm _down_. I kind of figured this would happen. That’s why I gave you the stick.”

“So you _knew_ you’d start convulsing in pain.” Derek totally isn’t buying it and that makes Stiles more than a little bit angry.

“I _knew_ that I’d probably get attacked. The point is, that wasn’t the witch.”

“It wasn’t,” Derek asks, but his flat tone makes it sound like a statement. Stiles huffs through his mouth, carefully checking to see if the bleeding has stopped.

“No. That was residual energy.”

“If _that_ was residual,” Derek starts, and Stiles can see the frustration and worry in his eyes.

“There isn’t necessarily a correlation between residual magic and true power,” Stiles sighs, standing wearily as he gazes at his bloodstained palms. “The energy I retrieved wasn’t just the witch, it was the energy of the ritual. You know…like a haunting or something. The emotion, the event- there’s power that doesn’t just stem from the human. Or witch.”

“So how did this help at all?” Derek asks, frowning. Stiles bends to pick up the map, examining the singed hole.

“Now we know where it is. For now. And this way the witch doesn’t know we’re coming for it.”

“So where _is_ it?” Derek asks, stepping closer to peer at the map.

“I think it’s hiding at the abandoned mill barely a mile or two out of town,” Stiles explains, frowning. He’s almost entirely certain he’s right.

“All right. So I-,”

“Will _not_ go seek it out,” Stiles says incredulously, already sensing the werewolf’s intentions. Derek stiffens, mouth set in a firm line.

“You’re not-,”

“A werewolf. Glad you noticed,” Stiles says sarcastically, trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt. “But I’m sure there are _other_ furry kids running around. You know. Maybe one. Or _four._ ”

“I’m not dragging Scott-,”

“Dragging. Because he doesn’t live in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says sarcastically. Derek frowns fiercely, a growl ripping past his lips.

“He’s a kid-,”

“And so am I. Surprise. But you forget the _kids_ you’re talking about have _saved_ your ass a few times already. Scott’s been a _berserker_ for god’s sake.”

“He doesn’t have to fight,” Derek says firmly, but even he doesn’t seem to believe himself.

“He’s self-appointed protector of all that is good and right in the world,” Stiles says, and Derek raises an eyebrow at the sarcastic remark.

Derek looks like he wants to argue but as Stiles waits the man remains silent.

“Any more invalid arguments?”

 

* * *

 

 

The pack are gathered at Derek’s place and Stiles tries to ignore the stares as he sits on the windowsill, legs circled around his backpack of magical supplies. He knows he’s out of place but Deaton has explained with some caution that Stiles is free to assist the werewolves with his new abilities.

“So there’s a witch trying to flush out a werewolf,” Liam says, and Stiles almost grins at the boy’s incredulous tone. He remembers being new, feeling like everything was weird and nothing was normal anymore.

“Yes. We know their hiding place. It’s best to stop this before any damage is done,” Derek explains reluctantly, and Scott taps the map on the table.

“So what? We go and try to make them leave?”

Derek sighs, leaning against the table with tense arms.

“I’m not sure negotiating will be an option,” Derek says quietly, and Scott frowns.

“We have to try.”

“Heads up. Won’t work,” Stiles says tersely, unable to keep quiet. Scott frowns at him uncertainly.

“How do you know?”

It’s a loaded question but Stiles can’t bring himself to hate Scott for asking it.

“I helped Derek track the witch,” Stiles says vaguely, hoping it’ll be left at that. It’s a stupid hope.

“You helped Derek? He asked you for help?”

It’s not meant to be hurtful but it still stings. The silent emphasis is there. _You? Why would he ask you?_ Stiles tries not to be offended and fails spectacularly as Derek raises an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“I was at Deaton’s when he came in,” Stiles says, and even as Liam, Kira, Malia, and Lydia look confused Scott seem to realize something.

“He’s…has he been… _showing_ you things?”

Scott makes it sound dirty, dangerous, and wrong. Stiles doesn’t really blame him- he hadn’t liked Deaton at first and the weird stuff he knew about had always seemed like the kind of junk you wouldn’t touch with a fifty-foot pole. Now, however…Stiles believes in being useful and informed above all else. This is his job and he does it well.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m still human. Just upgraded,” Stiles jokes, but no one really laughs. He ignores the pack in favor of unloading his backpack on the table.

The werewolves take a step backwards when Stiles pulls out little bottles from his stash.

“Is that Wolfsbane?” Liam asks, and Stiles feels bad for the kid.

“No. Smells different,” Scott says, and Stiles feels a little proud at the observation.

“It’s something for the witch. It’s a general earth-bound deterrent. You know- earth and air, fire and water. Opposites.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow as she walks up to the table, turning a vial in her hand.

“I’m giving Lydia most of the magic stuff. You guys _could_ carry it but it would probably bother you so I’ll give you generic witch-hunting crap.”

“Generic witch-hunting stuff?” Scott asks warily, and Stiles huffs out a laugh. He’s not used to being the one with the knowledge and now he understands why Deaton doesn’t really talk a lot. It’s a pain in the ass to have to explain everything.

“Trust me. Just take it,” Stiles says, and Scott still looks unsure but he takes the offered vial and knife as Stiles distributes the other weapons and mixtures.

“Wait. Are you coming?” Scott asks suddenly, and Stiles blinks, turning from the table where his hands are busy working over a satchel of ingredients.

“Yes,” Stiles says plainly, and he raises an eyebrow. Scott’s never had a real issue with Stiles barging in on werewolf activities. Until recently, of course.

“You haven’t been training with us. You won’t-,”

“Just because your exclusive club doesn’t include me _doesn’t_ mean I can’t defend myself,” Stiles says calmly, and he tries to make it sound joking but utterly fails.

Derek tenses where he stands and Scott looks mildly taken aback, hurt.

“I didn’t-,”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles interrupts, angry at himself for the slip. “Just trust me.”

It’s the second time he’s asked for trust and the second time Scott seems inclined not to comply. It’s disheartening but Stiles knows that his new skills aren’t enough to break the pattern of being ignored. No one’s ever listened to him, why start now? Either way, Stiles can’t help but feel the jab. He’s the sheriff’s kid, for god’s sake. Why _wouldn’t_ he know how to protect himself?

There’s an intake of breath as Stiles pulls the handgun from its near-invisible place under his jacket. He checks it routinely, examining his self-made bullets, the ones filled with different kinds of air-bound poisons. The eyes on him seem to burn but he ignores them as he tucks the gun back into its holster.

“Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

The witch is nowhere to be found.

“Are you _sure_ you did it right?” Scott asks Stiles.

Stiles hears the skepticism in his friend’s voice and he has the frightening urge to throttle him.

“I _know_ I did,” Stiles replies tightly, crouching as he moves around the perimeter of the abandoned mill. There aren’t any marks or evidence of magic yet but he won’t take any chances.

“So where’s the witch then?”

Stiles ignores Malia’s blunt question as he examines a singed hole by a window on the side of the mill.

“She was here,” Stiles manages to bite out, and he silently curses as he yanks the window open to grasp the high frame with his fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Stiles snaps at Derek unintentionally. He doesn’t have time to explain his every move to the pack but he’d hoped Derek would trust him by now.

“Stiles, that’s-,”

Lydia’s voice is muffled as Stiles hoists himself through the window, eyes adjusting to the dim space. He braces his tumble with steady arms, remembering exactly how to land without hurting himself. _Thank god for Wikipedia._

The smell of damp earth permeates the mill and Stiles tenses, surveying the area. The sheer amount of element that surrounds him is enough to give a witch power for a _very_ long time. He’s suddenly less sure about sneaking around.

“Stiles,” Derek growls, and Stiles turns to see the man’s head barely raised up to the window.

“What?”

“It’s not safe. Let us in or get out.”

“Fine. Give me-,”

There’s a flash of color and suddenly Derek is roaring and Stiles is out of breath, the ceiling suddenly in front of him as he’s unceremoniously flipped onto his back. His body flares with pain as he makes a loud _thud_ and lands.

“…ugh…. _fuuuuuuuudge_ ,” Stiles wheezes, spots dancing in his vision. There’s an unearthly chuckle and he can’t tell where it comes from as the sound echoes in the empty mill.

“Stiiiiiiles. Mmmmm. Delicious,” the witch says, and her voice is laughably feminine. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d think a cheerleader was talking to him.

“Gross. I’m not for eating,” Stiles deadpans, and he levers himself up painfully as he fingers the sack of ingredients hidden in his pocket.

“Tell the angry wolf that. Maybe he’ll give up. Probably not, though,” the witch says mockingly.

“Derek stopped saying he wanted to rip my throat out a while back,” Stiles replies, concentrating his power as he keeps an eye on the witch.

She’s of average height, with dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. Leaves and dirt cling to her clothes but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, honey. That’s not the part of you he wants to eat.”

Her laughter is like slime and Stiles fights the urge to shudder. _I need a bath. Or two. Or three._

“Yeah, because we all know big, bad wolves are naturally attracted to spastic humans.”

“Human? You’re adorable,” the witch laughs again as she walks around Stiles, swinging a bag of something with a lazy finger.

Stiles reaches out with his power carefully, trying to figure out what’s in the bag.

“Look, I don’t get furry every full moon. I’d say that’s pretty human.”

“Regardless. Enough talk, I want to hear the wolf scream.”

Her expression has turned from playful to murderous and Stiles realizes Derek’s been banging on the door but the witch has warded it. Stiles inhales slowly, fingering open the pouch in his hand. The witch turns her head sharply and Stiles moves as quickly as he can, throwing the powder before him in a wide arc.

He doesn’t hear his own voice as the witch screams furiously, drowned out by Derek’s earth-shattering roar.

The energy he channels into the spell is immense. It’s air-bound, a spell mean to poison any earth-bound creature and render them incapable. The witch takes it hard, shrieking and falling to her knees in pain as silvery, blue tendrils creep through her veins.

Stiles feels the magic pull at him and he feeds it willingly at first, allowing the bright flame to take energy from his limbs as he channels the spell at the witch.

The doors break but the pack stops with varied whines and growls as the air-bound current surrounding Stiles pulses. There’s a noise and words and Stiles thinks he can hear Derek barking a command at Lydia. He can’t be sure because it takes all of his focus to hold the spell forcing the witch to her knees.

“Stiles!” Lydia screams, and he doesn’t know why she’s yelling until he realizes the tornado-like vortex encompassing him. Lydia looks borderline terrified but she stands next to him, determined.

Stiles blinks, feels his concentration slip, and then suddenly the spell is gone and the witch is on the floor. There’s a moment of blessed silence and nothingness and then Stiles feels the ache in his bones and the empty space where his energy used to be.

Everything escapes him in a sudden rush and he falls to his knees, dizzy, nose bleeding thickly.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and his voice is insistent.

“…fine,” Stiles manages, breathing heavily. “Tired.”

“You could’ve died,” Lydia says, and she sounds as if she’s just realizes something.

When Stiles doesn’t answer Scott growls, stepping forward dangerously to look at Stiles where he’s crouched on the floor.

“Why did you-,”

“Only way. It was a…last resort,” Stiles explains, sighing as he breathes the blood out of his nose. The metallic scent clings to him and he wipes it away, frowning.

“You should’ve waited for us,” Kira says reproachfully, and Stiles snorts.

“Yeah. Except there were wards. You wouldn’t have lasted a second _and_ you would’ve been out of it too.”

“Wards?” Liam asks nervously, glancing back at the door.

“Yeah. No doubt they keep other creatures of the night out. Too bad she didn’t count on me,” Stiles says dryly, wincing as he pulls himself to his feet.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Derek says lowly, and Stiles feels his heart pound once, painfully, at the look on his face.

He does the only thing he knows how to do. He responds like a smartass.

“No promises.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been two days since the witch hunt and already Stiles feels isolated. Scott doesn’t look at Stiles the same way anymore and the ‘training sessions’ are still strictly for non-humans. It’s like the whole thing never happened.

And then Derek shows up at Deaton’s one evening.

Stiles has been granted an actual key to the place and Deaton sometimes leaves early and lets Stiles close up. It’s something Stiles takes great pride in- he’s always been the hanger-on, the one whiling away the hours with caffeine while Scott was working or making out. It’s a little bit bizarre that the tables have flipped. Aside from the making out part.

Stiles is singing along to Greg Laswell, stocking the magical armory Deaton keeps. The door swings open somewhere near and he almost doesn’t hear it but for the buzzing in the air that warns him a wolf is near. Stiles tilts his head, subconsciously tuning into the projection.

Green. The earth against skin. A sharp scent with some unnamed spice. Heat and strength.

 _You can never be too careful,_ Deaton’s voice echoes as Stiles reaches silently for a knot of Wolfsbane.

“Put that down,” Derek says dismissively as he enters, searching about with barely a glance at Stiles.

“Huh. So _that’s_ what you feel like,” Stiles mutters as he puts the Wolfsbane back.

“What?” Derek says faintly, and Stiles raises an eyebrow, frowning as he turns to look at the man.

Derek’s eyes are shadowed and he seems to be far away. Stiles chalks it up to uneasiness. His abilities seem to have a repellant factor to them if Scott’s reactions are anything to go by.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, trying and failing not to sound as despondent as he feels.

Stiles doesn’t see the pain in Derek’s eyes as he watches.

“Is Deaton here?”

“Went home early. Can…I could try, to…help,” Stiles attempts, feeling as if he’s swallowing his own tongue.

Derek doesn’t say anything, just regards Stiles quietly in the harsh lights of the clinic.

“Sure,” Derek says, and Stiles feels his heart nearly explode as the man makes his way to the table at the center of the room.

Stiles nervously closes the cabinets he’s been working on before he makes his way over to the table. The dirty cloth Derek’s unfolding looks like a shirt of some kind. There are dirt stains and grass clinging to the off-white fabric. Stiles can practically _see_ Derek ripping his shirt off to wrap up some kind of supernatural evidence but then his mind promptly dives into the gutter at the thought of Derek shirtless and he stops that particular train of thought.

“So. What do we have here?” Stiles asks, clearing his throat nervously as he stares determinedly at the cloth.

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me,” Derek says, opening the last scrap of shirt to reveal a bundle of dried plant matter.

Stiles leans closer, blindly reaching for tweezers he knows are resting behind him on the counter. He can _feel_ Derek staring but he tries to ignore the eyes on him as he sifts through the various flowers and grasses twined together with some sort of stem.

“Um. It’s-I….it’s not bad,” Stiles says, wincing and biting his lip when he realizes he’s going to have to explain.

He recognizes the bundle. It’s one he put in the woods nearly a month ago, when Deaton first started teaching him. He remembers the flowers he used. They reminded him of her smile. The sweet scent of grass, the way he could imagine a happy pack rolling around outside while a laughing Alpha called out from a front porch. The memories, real and imagined, make him swallow through a sudden lump in his throat.

“What do you mean?”

“I…put it out there,” Stiles says slowly.

“What does it do?” Derek asks tightly, and Stiles can feel a panic attack threaten.

This isn’t what he wanted. He wanted to _help_.

“It’s…for memories. For loved ones that are gone,” Stiles begins, and he sees the way Derek threatens to pull away, close off. He continues quickly. “The, uh- the flowers and grass all represent something- love, family, peace. It’s meant to release energy from the earth and allow spirits to rest.”

Derek is deathly silent and Stiles wants desperately not to cry because he _can’t_. Not now. He remembers making the bundle, thinking with some stupid naïveté that maybe it would help. That maybe the woods, _Derek_ , would be set free. That all the ghosts in the trees would finally be at peace.

“…you. You…what did you do?” Derek asks, and he sounds dumbfounded and that was _not_ the point.

“I didn’t _do_ anything, I mean, it wasn’t bad- I just, I wanted…it had to be put to rest. That place, that forest- it’s been nothing but a black stain, and I knew it needed to be cleansed. I didn’t want any other spirits to wander there. Maybe there weren’t actual _spirits_ , but the memories were there, and memories have energy. They have weight.”

“You set them free,” Derek says reverently, and Stiles blinks, suddenly shocked.

“I…,”

“That was _you_ ,” Derek says, and his eyes are alight with something Stiles can’t understand.

Derek looks at Stiles like he’s realized something, like he sees something he hadn’t before.

“What- you _felt_ it?” Stiles asks, shocked, and Derek runs a hand over his face.

“…I felt it. It was there, and then…it was gone. I didn’t know why.”

“It worked,” Stiles breathes, and it’s as if all of his energy has suddenly left him. “I…oh my god. I didn’t think- it was like the ash. I had to believe. I didn’t think it would work.”

Derek is quiet for a moment as his fingers brush the preserved petals. Stiles watches, heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest.

“What do they mean?” Derek asks quietly, and Stiles licks his lips, glancing up at the man through his lashes.

“White clover. _Think of me_ ,” Stiles recites, touching the petals. “Heliotrope. _Eternal love_.”

“And this?”

Stiles swallows at the sight of the faded green leaves. He can see her now, the frail hands closed around a delicate pot.

“Lady’s mantle. _Comfort. Self-love._ For…emotional shock to the heart,” he says softly, touching the little leaves.

“Why did you do it?” Derek asks suddenly, and Stiles blinks.

Derek sounds like he _needs_ an answer and Stiles isn’t sure if he has the right one. He’s scared but he ignores the feeling, focusing on the bundle lying in the remains of the shirt.

“They deserved it,” Stiles says slowly.

Derek blinks and Stiles thinks he sees a faint sheen of tears but then Derek looks up and suddenly they seem very close and Stiles can’t breathe. Derek is _right there_ and Stiles wants nothing more than to bridge the gap and he could do it, he can just _move_ -

The door swings open and Deaton enters, breaking the silence as he says something about a forgotten book.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek becomes a constant in Stiles’ life, even more so than he was before.

It’s like living in a twilight zone, the kind where suddenly Derek is Stiles’ best friend, is the one teaching him better ways to fight against a werewolf with more strength and power. Suddenly they’re the ones eating crappy takeout at ten at night when all the world is dead and they watch the woods that aren’t really dark any more, just deep and quiet. Derek picks Stiles up from work and they sit on the hood of the car and eat burgers with no tomato (Derek’s mildly allergic) and talk about how Poe is great (Derek’s actually way into literature).

Somehow, somewhere, Derek and Stiles become Derek _and_ Stiles.

“You smell like Derek,” Scott says accusingly at lunch one day, and his suspicious stare makes Stiles feel like he’s done something wrong.

“Hmmn,” Stiles hums noncommittally, ignoring the statement to text Derek _again_.

 

                                                         Sourwolf

 

                                                                       omg this eng teacher sucks>

            <you shouldn’t text in class

                               r u srs man he’s totally ripping on poe rn it’s not okay>

            <use higher level language and reasoning to destroy their argument

                                                                             u know it man totally B) >

                                            have I mentioned I fxckin hate werewolf noses>

            <what is it

                                                                               scott being a nosy bitch>

            <and

                                                                                    DER DID U JUST JOKE>

                                                                                                   OMG U DID>

            <calm down stiles

                                                                 fuck no imma screenshot this shit>

            <stiles

                                                                    u can’t stop me der u know that>

            <Chinese. On me. Tonight.

                                                                    nah I’d rather eat out of the box>

                   don’t get me wrong you have fABS but we aren’t at that level yet>

            <I will screenshot that

                                                der pls we both know u suck at smart phones>

                                                                 so bc I’m nice I will accept ur offer>

            <orange chicken, lo mein, spring rolls, hibiscus tea

                                                                   u know that song talk dirty to me>

            <go to class stiles

 

Stiles doesn’t answer when Scott asks why he’s laughing so hard.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is working at Deaton’s thinking about Derek’s text. He feels inordinately happy at the thought of eating Chinese takeout even if they’ve done it before. Something just has him in a great mood.

If Deaton notices he doesn’t comment. Instead he grills Stiles on plant properties while setting out assorted vials of extracts to be shelved properly. It’s nearly seven by the time Deaton leaves for an in-house visit.

“Make sure to lock up,” Deaton says as usual.

Stiles yells an affirmative as the man exits. The vials sit on the counter, shining glass reflecting the lights above. Unfortunately Stiles is so wound up that he finds it a precarious task at best. He nearly drops vials several times.

And then he does.

“Ah, shi-,” Stiles curses, staring at the shattered glass on the counter. It was _the last damn vial._

It’s one of several vials of lavender essence but Stiles leaves a note for Deaton anyways, promising to pay. He sweeps the glass up quickly, shutting the cabinets as he swipes a paper towel over the countertop. Most of the liquid seems to have been absorbed by his shirt.

“Great. Now I smell like lavender,” Stiles mutters, picking a tiny sliver of glass out from a stinging cut on his finger. It’s bleeding brightly but he doesn’t think much of it.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

            <I’m waiting outside

“Fuck,” Stiles says brightly, and even though he doesn’t really swear he feels the need to do so now.

He feels his heart fly off the handle, do a fucking pirouette-backflip combo off the damn handle. It’s fantastic and terrifying and Stiles grabs his backpack, heaving it over his shoulder as he tears out of the clinic, barely stopping to lock the doors.

Derek is watching in amusement from his car. Stiles grins, tossing his backpack into the trunk before launching himself into the passenger seat. It’s mildly disconcerting when Derek’s expression quickly clouds over.

“Blood,” Derek manages, and the word is tense and hostile.

“Ah- dropped something,” Stiles says quickly, waving his hand haphazardly.

Derek grabs his hand and Stiles resists the urge to shriek as his heart stutters violently.

“Be careful,” Derek says gruffly.

Stiles _knows_ his mouth is hanging open a little bit. It’s probably largely unattractive but Derek doesn’t seem to notice. Stiles clears his throat, blinking rapidly as he stares at the warm hand closed over his own.

“Um…yeah.”

Derek quickly drops Stiles’ hand as if he’s been burned, clearing his throat and glancing away quickly. Stiles could _swear_ he sees a blush on the man’s face.

“Did…Deaton say anything interesting today?”

It’s an obviously desperate attempt to defuse the charged situation. Stiles could call Derek out but he doesn’t, willing to wait. Stiles instead launches into an explanation of how Deaton _always_ says something interesting and Derek interrupts occasionally with his usual deadpan quips.

Their usual spot is a tiny clearing just outside the woods. They walk from the car, takeout in hand, and follow an almost invisible trail to the stone overlooking the gentle slope of the forest. It’s the perfect place to sit and the sunset and sunrise look pretty frickin’ magical from their spot as far as Stiles is concerned.

It’s a bit breezy and Derek sits their fortune cookies on top of the napkins, cross-legged as they share the boxes of takeout, chopsticks poking in mock swordfights (a custom, or maybe ritual). Derek tries and fails to pick up broccoli and Stiles laughs, feeling himself flush a vibrant red. He used to worry about his blush. Not so much now.

The wind blows as Stiles mockingly waves orange chicken at Derek’s face and suddenly _Derek_ is blushing, nose twitching as he looks away. Stiles doesn’t think too much of it at first, assuming he’s once again broken the walls Derek puts up. It happens every now and then and it’s a feat he’s proud of.

It happens again, though.

“Here, you’ll never get some otherwise,” Stiles teases, holding out a broccoli floret held between his chopsticks.

Derek leans forward a little and then he does it again, inhaling sharply, pupils dark against the color of his eyes. Stiles feels his mouth go inexplicably dry and he fights to keep his heart rate somewhat steady.

“I’d rather get it from you,” Derek says, and it would be funny, like every other joke he makes with Stiles in his deadpan way.

Except Derek actually looks _serious_ and _wow is that what they mean by smoldering because oh my god_. Stiles feels his heart actually _stop_ completely, and he thinks, _so that’s what it feels like_ and then Derek shoves the last bits of takeout to the side with a firm swipe.

Stiles doesn’t even have time to think because suddenly he’s being faced with _Derek_ and they somehow meet in the middle and Stiles doesn’t even remember moving but they’re close and then _Derek kisses him_.

Stiles can feel the air escaping his lungs and he doesn’t give a damn about clichés because he _really does_ lose his breath. And then all he can think is _oh, fuck_ because Derek’s tongue is swiping at the sweet orange on the side of Stiles’ mouth and it should be pretty gross but it’s _not_.

Somehow Stiles ends up moving over Derek’s legs, effectively straddling him as Derek makes an odd growling noise.

 _Is this purring,_ Stiles thinks suddenly, and the thought makes him laugh and he like the way their lips buzz where they’re connected and he can feel Derek smiling, feel the tickle of Derek’s fingers looped over the waist of his jeans.

They break apart after what seems like an eternity and honestly Stiles feels like it was still too short. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t ever want to be away from _this_. He almost attacks Derek again after a quick breath but the man laughs, out of breath, hands rough and warm and _perfect_ on Stiles’ face.

“It’s getting cold,” Derek murmurs, and his eyes are closed as he pulls Stiles’ forehead to rest against his own.

“So warm me up,” Stiles breathes, and he smiles widely when Derek opens his blazing eyes and pulls him in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry. I don't know what this is other than my written-out, deap-seated desire for Stiles/Derek bonding. Plus it's as good a time as any, right? And Brae is the Bae but a girl's gotta eat and Derek is not really enough to keep her in one place imao. So yeah. I hope you enjoyed it, read and review!  
> Update: Fic Rec/Posting: Hey all! I'd just like to mention that if you would like to rec one of my fics or post a link on tumblr, please tag me either as superagentwolf (A03) or wewereallinmexico (tumblr). I really appreciate it when you spread the love, but please remember to give some credit :)


End file.
